Figment
by PinkBomberJacket
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. Watson watches as Sherlock enters the kitchen and conversation ensues. John believes Sherlock to be a figment of his imagination, and Sherlock asks him a few questions with great consequence. FLUFF Johnlock ONESHOT


***A.N. Hi everyone! This is only a oneshot, and I haven't actually read over it (it's just a brain churn I had to get out) but I'd love to write more sherlocky goodness later. Hope you all like it. Reviews would be AMAZING! And check out my Dramione Fanfic too, if you're into HP. VIVA LE SHERLOCK!

He didn't hear a single noise. Nothing. Yet he knew he was there. John looked up from his tea on the kitchen table to see the one person that he wanted to, his dearest Sherlock Holmes, standing inconspicuously in the doorway. His lanky shadow fell across the floor in just the way as it used to, his hair reflected light the same way as it used to. He was wearing his coat, the same coat that John had last seen him in alive, and john could see the silvery ridges under the man's cat-like eyes where the splitting of his skin on impact hadn't quite healed properly. He looked tired, exhausted even, his clothing underneath hanging loosely from his emaciated frame. Obviously without John's persistent nannying he wasn't eating regularly. John expected this. John expected all of this. He chuckled bitterly, and his hand lazily took hold of the luke-warm mug in front of him.

"Hello again." He said nonchalantly. Sherlock looked at him, puzzled. Perhaps his companion was less intelligent than he had thought.

"It's me, john," He said slowly, as though speaking to a wild animal. He was wary. This was not the John that he knew. He'd expected… He didn't know what he'd expected. Fists, probably. Heavy object sent flying in his direction. But not…. This. John lifted the cup in his hands and met the other man's gaze with a bitter smile.

"I'm alive. I'm…. I'm back, John."

" I know, Sherlock." Watson spat the last consonant out with a slight note of derision.

" You've told me that three times this week." His voice was deceptively calm, matter-of-fact even, but the slopping of tea from his shaking cup betrayed him.

"I'm not quite following, John." Sherlock said. Doubts were beginning to compile in his mind, possible reasons for Watson to be behaving so strangely. Grief had a way of making people behave irrationally. Perhaps this was just that. Perhaps his presence hadn't properly sunk in yet.

John's eyes closed and he seemed to steady himself, taking a deep breath and releasing it slowly. Sherlock edged his way slowly into the room.

"The mind is a cruel thing, isn't it?" John started up again suddenly.

"It's been two months now, and I've seen you and heard you and spoken to you fifty-three times as of today. Fifty-three times. I think I've chatted with you more now than when you were actually alive." He laughed a little bit, a sad smile tugging at the edges of his lips. His eyes remained hollow.

"That first time was the worst. I actually thought… You were really…" He stopped again. Paused. Shuddery breath. Began again.

"This is ridiculous. I'm talking to myself. Mrs. Hudson probably thinks I'm mad…" He looked down at his tea cup, noticed it was empty.

"I'm making more tea." He breathed, pulling himself up from his chair slowly. He took a few steps across the small room before yelping and stumbling, his leg giving way beneath him; Sherlock started forwards.

"Get away from me, Sherlock. DON'T touch me!" he cried urgently and Sherlock jumped away as though bitten.

"Why? John you are being silly now…"

"Every time one of you touches me, you disappear." John said simply, climbing back onto his feet with a groan. Sherlock was stunned.

"You… You think I'm a figment of your imagination?" He said in wonderment.

"Of course." Watson set his cup on the bench and was filling the kettle with water. "No one can come back from the dead, Sherlock. My mind just wants to tell me otherwise. Please, for God's sakes Sherlock, stand back, don't touch anything. I don't want to bump into you and lose you so quickly. God, I sound crazy even to myself these days. I just… want you to talk to me. I miss you, you know." He looked up at Sherlock, who was still trying to wrap his mind around John's current state, then looked back down at the cup. Sherlock was thinking quickly, his mind going into overdrive.

"So you, you want me to talk to you, yes? What about?" He leant against the bench and observed as john dug down the teabags. Watson laughed at him.

"Anything, really. Why don't you ask me questions?" The kettle clicked as it approached boiling point.

"So, I'm a figment of your imagination?"

"Yes."

"and I have come to visit you frequently?"

"We've already established that."

"Right… So what have I told you the other times I've come back?"

"Oh, all sorts of ridiculous things. A couple of times, you burst in through the door, bleeding all over the place and babbling about Moriarty, and I run to help you and you disappear. Quite a few, you've just sauntered out of your room like everything's normal, blue silk dressing gown on and very little else. Once or twice I've found you dead on my bedroom floor at night. Those are the worst… But mostly you just come in and we chat like this. Those are the nice times."

"What do I usually say then?"

"Exactly what I want to hear." John poured hot water into his cup, let the dark stain of the tealeaves curl out into the clear.

"And what is that?"

"That you're back forever. That you'll never leave. That you love me." He said all of this so simply, so plainly, that he could have been talking about the weather. He turned to face Sherlock, mirrored his lean against the kitchen bench. He smiled at the gaping Sherlock.

"John… I…" He couldn't think straight. He felt the same, he did, and he had never said anything or done anything to show that. For such an imperceptive man, John Watson had somehow looked straight into him and found the heart that everyone else seemed to completely look over. Including Sherlock himself.

"Oh, enough of this," said John with a slight whine of frustration in his voice.

"I don't know why I keep letting myself do this…" His eyes glittered with what Sherlock could only think were tears. John stood up straight and moved closer to Sherlock. He waved his hand as though to swat through the middle of Sherlock, but Sherlock caught his wrist with his completely solid, completely real, completely alive hand. John looked up into the blue crystalline eyes of his friend, his companion, his life, and said, with the sweetest sound of hope ringing in his voice,

"Sherlock?"

And then his eyes rolled back, his body arched forward and Sherlock caught the man that was his as the blackness enclosed and the dead faint swept him away somewhere safe.


End file.
